


The Well

by Healah



Category: Logan (2017) - Fandom, Wolverine (Movies), Wolverine and the X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Rating May Change, i've also decided that there's going to be lgbt themes later on so yeah ;), there will be graphic violence in the next chapters and more characters will be introduced
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-17 01:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10583559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Healah/pseuds/Healah
Summary: Laura was perfectly happy with not wondering and keeping her eyes planted firmly on the path to Eden, but if she could ever look back and wonder, she would have believed in two possible outcomes: either they would all die, and the last of the mutants would die with her, or else they would all live, as Eden as their veritable sanctuary, where sunlight glimmered through tall trees and there were cool blue rivers where water always ran.





	1. The Road to Nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is an AU where Laura and Logan don't ever travel to Eden, and Logan doesn't die. This chapter follows canon pretty closely and the actual AU part doesn't really start until the next chapter - this is pretty much introductory, so a lot of the dialogue at the end follows what Logan says in the movie. The Reavers aren't tailing them at all so they won't really be important.
> 
> Enjoy!

She counts: Three hundred and sixty five days. Seven days in a week, and thirty of those in a standard month.

Transigen might not have taught her much in her short twelve years of life other than killing, but, despite the sheltered white walls and blank coldness of the security guards and the physicians, it did grace her the ability to read, write, and count. This small consideration was never explained to her or any of the other children, but she had supposed that a multi-billion investment in killing machines that couldn't even read roadway signs or add up hours on a clock wasn't much of an investment at all.

There had always been something easy in numbers, easy in a way that none of the other Transigen subjects grasped like she did, except for Rictor, who learnt everything lightning-fast and had already advanced to reading thick, complicated texts while she continued to struggle with even the most basic material that was supplied to her. Numbers were straightforward. They were logical and sequential and all those other things that Gabriela said appealed to her naturally, that made her unique and individual in her own way, that made her a person.

She didn't much care about being a person, though. All she knew was that Gabriela told her numbers were infinite and that infinity was enough to keep her distracted.

So, she counted. Everything. Minutes that ticked by, the lightbulbs in the Transigen rooms, how often the doctor's silhouettes would pass by her window and when, precisely, the sun should set and fall. Sometimes, on the rare occasion when one of the mutants were punished for insubordination, she would sit with them and run her fingernails crooked across their skin, mentally keeping toll of how many scars and bruises littered their flesh, like starbursts left to rot on a pale night.

After she met _him_ and suddenly every single day was a day spent running through blood and bodies, after Gabriela died, she hadn't thought much of counting. Everything went by too quickly; before she could remember that impossible time in her life when nothing moved and dust coated her like she was dead, they, she and Charles, Logan, _him_ , would be back on the run.

Charles never talked about what would happen afterwards, there was never enough time, and Laura was perfectly happy with not wondering and keeping her eyes planted firmly on the path to Eden, but if she could ever look back and wonder, she would have believed in two possible outcomes: either they would all die, and the last of the mutants would die with her, or else they would all live, as Eden as their veritable sanctuary, where sunlight glimmered through tall trees and there were cool blue rivers where water always ran.

As it was, she never did think of the future, so she never had to be surprised when Charles died, and Laura, Charles, and Logan became just Laura and Logan, no matter how intensely Logan wanted Charles back and just as equally didn't want Laura.

They, now two, fled the farmhouse with a corpse hushed in the back of a truck, the remains of one dead Reaver Pierce and Doctor Rice still wet on their knuckles, freed, finally, from the hunt. As Logan drove, Laura stared out her side window, watching the signs and speed limits, which Logan broke the second they flew out of the cornfield, zoom past, barely even aware they say anything. Three hours too late, she remembers she's forgotten to count them, and without thinking turns to stare instead at Logan. In the moonlight, he looks like a man possessed. Perspiration dots his forehead and his eyes are wild; his tense, hard body is squared like a box, waiting for men in labcoats to appear from the darkness. Waiting for that thing that is him but isn't.

He hasn't taken his foot off the accelerator by even an inch. In a distant part of her brain, Laura thinks they should be relieved, happy, even. Instead, the stench of grief hangs in the air. She doesn't have any words for him, just like he doesn't have anything for her. She may have only know him for ninety-six hours, four days, _cuatro días_ , but she can sense these things like no human can. The blood that runs through his veins is also hers, and she knows her own kind, regardless of the meager education Transigen had given her. She thinks of the comic books in her pack and without warning a whole twelve year's worth of desperation and questions come flowing into the front of her mouth, from beneath her heart, clogging her throat, ready to burst from inside her lungs and exhale out to be acknowledged.

_Where were you? Why didn't you know I was here? What happens next?_

_Do you even care about me?_

Still, she says nothing. The pain is there, a glass shard between her ribcage, but if there's one thing Laura knows better than anything else, it's how to keep quiet.

She does, after all, have twelve year's worth of practice.

                                                                                                                        XXX

They bury Charles in a green place at midday. It's not hot here and although the sky is blue, the sunshine provides no warmth. Despite this, fat patches of sweat still appear on Logan's shirt, mixing with spilt blood and dirt from the grave Charles is laid to rest in. Laura watches him from the base of a nearby oak, numb to feeling, as if she was watching him dig from somewhere outside of her own body. She alternates between staring at the half-dug grave, the grass beneath her feet, Logan's face. He doesn't cry, or if he does, Laura doesn't notice it. It's taking too long: Laura fidgets, obsessively pushes her pink shades back up the slick bridge of her nose.

When he finishes, she stands up and walks over to him, head down. She's spent the past 15 minutes planning this, pressing a fingernail into her skin every time another second passes, waiting until she can't see a hole in the ground. Her father's hand is grimy and calloused, lined with both age and work. She has barely two seconds to feel the touch of his skin before he rips his hand away. He glares at the earth instead of at her, trampling the soil under his feet until he gets to their truck and, without any warning, starts beating it with the shovel, screaming in the raw, agonized kind of way only animals can. It makes Laura's hairs stand up.

It's over as soon as it starts. Logan takes a few shallow breathes, and collapses flat on the road. Alarm spikes through her, so fast she's left slightly nauseated as she stumbles over to him and checks his pulse, which is weak but still present.

Seeing him vulnerable like this almost makes her angry, almost makes her hate him for letting himself break apart like this and leaving it up to her to pick up the pieces, but Laura knows by her very programming that she has no right to anger like this. She's never been allowed it before, so there was no reason this should be any different. Transigen might be a non-threat to her now, but it would still linger, in every moment, every thought. Because she has Logan now won't do anything to change that.

Irritated but determined, Laura drags him to the passenger seat (and discovers that physically forcing a three hundred pound man into a pickup when you're hardly pubescent is no small feat), turns on the engine, and follows the road to the nearest clinic.

                                                                                                                       XXX

She'd been on-edge around the doctor at first and had ignored him every time he would ask how she'd got them there (you _drove?_ ) or where Logan got his injuries from, but she reluctantly relaxed after a few hours. He seemed nice enough, and was even awed, and maybe a little afraid, that he would actually get to meet a real, live mutant. After about twenty minutes of arguing, he let her stay in the room with him as he plugged Logan into medical machines and wrapped bandages around where X-24 had cut deep into him, his brow furrowed and his lip swollen and red from being bitten.

She didn't think he was the type of person who would work under Transigen.

For once, Laura doesn't know how much time passes before Logan wakes up again, just hears protests from the doctor and Logan's gruff voice, warning him away. She blinks, looks up, and there is her father, looking right back down at her. There's a touch at her wrist, almost her hand. It is rough, but there's something else there, a hesitant gentleness she's never seen from him before.

Before she knows it, he's pulling her out of the clinic and back to the truck. He deposits her into the passenger's side, slams the door shut, and leans back against his seat, exhaling deeply.

For a moment, there is only uncomfortable silence. Laura can see her father steeling himself for speech.

"I don't know how you got me here, but, uh," he starts, sets his jaw, then continues, "thank you."

Probably, he wasn't expecting acknowledgement. The anger in Laura's stomach is still there, but it has softened and she's able to keep the mulishness in her voice at a minimum when she replies, " _De nada._ "

His hand freezes on the steering wheel. "You can talk."

She nods. Again, he says, disbelief coloring his voice, "you can talk."

"Why the fuck-- what-- what's been all this bullshit for the last 2000 fucking miles?"

She glowers and finally loses her temper, exploding at him in her native tongue, thoroughly enjoying the confused resentment that blooms across Logan's face: perfect spite that she could take out on him after hour upon hour of being subjected to his angry eyes, his disapproving mouth, like she was the sole cause of all of his misfortunes, like she was the reason he and Charles would never find their Sunseeker. The anger swells.

_I just wanted you to care about me._

"What? Shut up. Okay, shut up. Shut up." He curls into himself as she yells at his face, and she can see him getting more harried and more furious with every breath she takes but she doesn't _care._

Finally, he combusts, shouts, " _Shut the fuck up!_ "

She lists every name of every friend she left behind in Mexico, slow, with feeling.

"What? Who is that? Who is that?"

Laura breathes in, trying to contain herself. "North Dakota."

"What?" Comprehension dawns on his face. He snorts impatiently, mutters, "Shit, look..." reaches into the backseat, and rips a comic from Laura's bag, the one she likes the most, the one with the Rogue.

Logan rips it open, scanning the pages, stops, and shoves it in her face, pointing to a page where a note with numbers on it is drawn. Laura starts to speak again, her face lighting up, but Logan just shakes his head like a dog and points again.

"This place, yeah? Your nurse read too many stories. You understand? Too many stories! I've seen it, I've seen it, okay? This all here, none of it exists. This Eden doesn't exist--"

" _No, es real, es real--!_ "

"I am not taking you to North Dakota, okay!" Logan yells. His beard hair flutters as he sighs deeply in an attempt to calm himself down. "Listen. I am fucked up. I cannot get you there. This is two days away, and I'm half-dead now. We go here? We take this trip? Neither of us is coming back, I promise. You want to do right by that nurse you were with, you stay alive.

"We're not going. That's it, _comprende?_ "

He throws the comic down under his seat, breathing heavily, and sits straighter, glaring at her. Just waiting for protest.

Laura narrows her eyes, but doesn't say anything. She doesn't trust herself; she's so beside herself she can hardly breathe right.

Without another word, Logan pushes his foot against the gas pedal, and the engine sputters, then starts. The seat against Laura's back is hard, and she can feel the pressure on her knuckles where her claws are itching to extend. Logan doesn't notice.

With steel in his voice and metal in his hands, he says, "We're going to find someplace to stay."

Laura doesn't respond.


	2. As Boats Bob Upon Waters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got off my butt and finished making a draft for the plot, so hopefully it'll be easier for me to write everything and post it more quickly! The third major character will be introduced the next time I post and I've decided I'll probably write 5-7 chapters for this story. 
> 
> (Also, I don't have a beta reader, and even though I think I did a good job it's a little hard for me to tell if my writing is quality tbh, so I guess if this turns out to be a flop tell me? Anyway, hope you enjoy!)

They're not even on the road for an hour before they find a hotel to stay at: it's small, nondescript, and painted pastel yellow with tidy white windows organized into rows across its face. Laura doesn't really have experience with anything outside of the Transigen buildings, but it looks nice enough to her. Logan, however, snorts as he pulls into a parking space, hacking briefly into his arm as he opens the truck door and steps outside.

The driver's seat is stained red with his blood. A grimace twists Laura's face; while she remains convinced that Eden does exist, that it is safe, just like Gabriela said, a treacherous voice whispers that going there would be pointless while Logan is in the state he's in. Despite her anger at him, she doesn't want him dead.

She shoves her door open and circles around the truck to stand by Logan, who is glowering down at his dirty clothing. At her approaching footsteps he turns to eye her, scanning the scratches that are littered across her face and hands, the patches of other people's blood on her shirt. His frown deepens.

"We don't have any other clothes," he mutters. Laura doesn't know what to say to this. Of course they don't have anything else, doesn't he think she already knows that?

The blood isn't important to her anyway. She's lived her entire life covered in it. As far as she's concerned, it's just an inevitable part of being alive and mutant. She glares daggers at him, untouched by this pointless concern. The memory from nearly an hour ago is still fresh in her mind; she wouldn't have spoken even if she wanted to.

Still, despite the air of distinct detachedness Logan gives off, he always seems to know exactly what Laura is thinking. Grabbing roughly at her hand, he says, "Can't walk in like this. You look like you just ate someone, here..."

He reaches through the truck window, wheezing, and then half-hazardly thrusts a dirty gray rag into her hand.

"Wipe your face with that and get all that shit off...wouldn't hurt to button your jacket, too, we can buy you a new shirt after we get a room, there's too much blood on that one..."

Laura follows his instructions reluctantly, but it takes her less than a minute to see the pointlessness of her efforts. Not only is the blood not going away, without any water it's smearing all over her skin and making her look almost worse. Her stubbornness and her protests war with each other for a moment, but before she can reach a decision on whether or not to comment on the time they're wasting, Logan seizes her arm and drags her past the hotel's petunia garden and through the front doors.

The interior is just as small and neat as the outside, except the lobby is decorated mostly with chartreuse and violet instead of yellow. Stumbling over her feet, Laura snarls at the back of Logan's head, who, of course, ignores her and continues towards the front desk.

"A room for two, please," he says curtly to the receptionist.

"Well, um," she stutters, gawking at the stains on them with wide eyes, "I don't think..."

A dagger-like glare from Logan is all it takes for the receptionist to go white. She is shivery and pale as Logan whips out Gabriela's envelope and pays for the week's stay. When she hands them the keys to their room, Laura can practically smell the fear coming off of her.

"Have a pleasant stay, sir!" she squeaks.

The ride up the elevator is short but uncomfortable, the silence between them hard as ice, a frostily immovable sheet that pervades the air and clogs both their mouths and their lungs. They're on the third floor, and Laura silently ticks off each ding before the door rattles open. She jogs to the room with their number before Logan has the chance to grab at her again, waiting impatiently as he limps toward her, muttering vaguely under his breath and leaving a thin, ominous trail behind him.

Their room has two beds situated side-by-side, separated by a small side desk. There's a TV on the front wall, a closet, and a bathroom put off to the side, door halfway open. It's plain, but big enough that there's enough space for both of them.

Logan pauses just as he looks ready to collapse on one of the beds, a brief flash of guilt clouding his eyes.

"...Which one you want?" he asks, rolling his head and cracking the bones there, trying to look at anywhere but the girl in the room.

Laura stares. " _Qué_?"

"The bed," he snaps, then breathes and regains his composure, dragging a veiny hand across his throat, digging his nails until he almost draws red.

"Which bed do you want?"

A long, tense moment passes, so thick a knife couldn't cut through it. Laura might have voluntarily chosen not to speak for the past week, but she's always had feeling, thoughts, things she wanted to say but couldn't find a way to get out. She may have been quiet, but she was never mute.

Now, she really is speechless.

_Of all the things for you to be_ considerate _about._

Her mouth is dry. She points to the one by the window, where the air conditioner makes the thick curtains flutter.

He jerks his chin in a kind of recognition and turns away from her again, dropping to his bed so hard the springs whine in protest. Without another word, his head hits the pillow, and an hour after Laura finally finds the words to articulate what she's feeling, he's already asleep.

 

                                                                                                                           XXX

 

He doesn't remember a hell of a lot about the past, where he was born, how old he was the first time he killed, his father's face, but he does remember the metal. Scars and suffocation and sheer _agony_ beyond anything he's ever felt, a project under not only the knife but the needle, injections of gleaming chrome embedded into his spine, his skull. An animal transformed into a weapon, spitting into God's face.

Although his body had been left ( _temporarily_ , Logan thought bitterly) undamaged, perfected, even, with the addition of unbreakable adamantium bones, his mind had suffered the consequences of what his body could not.

He'd wasted over twenty years. Twenty years, with nothing but Stryker's damn fucking sneering face at the front of his mind to keep him company. Two decades spent never staying in one place more than a few months, fighting caged men in the haze of bar smoke and the screaming of piss-poor drunkards and tramps without shit else to do.

He might have hated them all at the time, but even Logan has to admit that, looking back on it now, the arrival of the X-Men had been a fucking blessing in disguise.

No blessing like that is here for him now, not that he'd been expecting one. One-hundred and ninety seven years of this bullshit under his belt, and he still can't seem to learn the difference between staying still and running to get caught up in another washout like he always does. Admitting it leaves a sour taste in his mouth, but after playing superhero with the X-men for twenty-four years he's come to expect time and chance to wait for him to heal, to wind up and slow down in accordance to however long it took for him to lick his wounds, to give him that one perfect opportunity to turn everything over and make it right. All until his past was thrown back in his face and he'd have no choice but to confront it, over and over again. An endless cycle.

Logan guesses the only difference with Laura is that now he really won't be able to get out of this one. No easy way out, no cheats besides dumping her on the side of the road and leaving somewhere to go blow his brains out with that last bullet.

An unexpected wave of guilt rises in his chest at the thought. After all, he knows the significance of silence better than anyone, and remembering the sight of Laura scream and kill grown men, like a beast uncaged, makes his bones ache, makes a place deep, deep inside of him _hurt_.

_She's your daughter, Logan._

As much as he tries not to care, as much he doesn't _want_ to, he's seen Gabriela's video; he's smelled the blood that runs through her veins. She is rage incarnate, a wolverine buried beneath a tiny thing of a girl.

He knows the metal that's been grafted onto her very bones, and he knows how this story ends. He's lived it too many times not to.

There's barely any more time for him to brood before he's wracked by a storm of coughing. He might have suffered through bullet wounds, cuts, and maiming, but he's never liked the sight of his own blood, and this is no exception. The blood he's just hacked out of his system is pitiful compared to the mess that's been left on his sheets, however, dark as wildberries and clotted on the mattress and on his half-healed wounds.

A sharp stab of pain shoots through his legs as he struggles to stand up, chest heaving. When he finally gets to his feet, he limps across the floor over to where the bathroom door is still hanging open, steps inside, and locks the door. Blood stains the pristinely white sink where he puts his hands on it, and without thinking he kicks the bath mat over to the side, like he'll give the hotel staff any less grief by keeping at least one thing somewhat clean.

It was hard enough just trying to walk with the state he's in, so it shouldn't have surprised him when unbuttoning his shirt presents a certain challenge, but it still makes bile bubble in his throat, makes him so frustrated he wants to rip it off and tear it to pieces. As he's undressing, he has to stop and calm down more than once, just breathe, but, as humiliating as it is for him to devote half an hour just to take off his clothes, it still does the trick and gets him into the tub without any collateral damage, to himself or the sink.

The water is almost scaldingly hot, but it burns enough to take his mind off of how much pain just breathing is causing him. It runs in heavy rivulets down his arms, his thighs, his hair, sliding the blood away and down the drain. He drops flat on his ass and just sits with his head bowed, watching all the red go by.

Even though his healing factor is being a bitch at the moment, he recognizes small mercies and thanks whatever beings might be out there that at the very least there's no longer a gaping wide hole in him from where X-24 dug its claws in. It takes a while, but eventually all that's left of the blood is what's scattered on the bath curtains. His hair feels disgustingly gritty underneath his fingertips, but Logan only spares a minute attempting to wash it out before the shampoo gets to him and he is consumed by the overwhelming urge to vomit.

Dizzily, he shuts off the water, gropes for the closest towel, and lurches out. There's a split second of confusion as he whirls around, looking for a fresh set of clothes.

"Fucking-" He stops short, exhales. Shoves on the dirty tanktop and jeans and storms back into his (their?) room, where the kid is perched on her bed, legs swinging as she flips through the Eden comic. There's a small pile of clothes next to her with the tags still attached.

This does nothing for his mood.

"Where'd this all come from?" he barks. She looks up, expressionless, sits the comic on her lap but keeps it open.

" _Las compré,_ " she says shortly. "I bought them."

He throws her a skeptical glare, but before he can say anything she elaborates, "There's a gas station by the hotel. I got them while you were sleeping." Her lips thin. "I didn't steal."

"I never said you did," he shoots back at her. "Look. You can't just go off whenever you damn well feel like it. You're, what, eleven, twelve-?"

"Twelve," she says, and Christ, he feels like such an asshole with the way she's looking at him, like she didn't expect anything better from him. "I turned twelve in March."

"Okay, twelve. You still can't do crap like that. You're just a kid-"

"I can look after myself."

"Doesn't matter," he says, and reaches over to grab her forearm, ignoring the daggers she glares at him. "I know you've been through some shit, trust me, I _know_ , but that doesn't change that you _are_ a kid and you look it. You don't wander off somewhere without telling me, you understand? Hey." She might be strong, but he's still stronger, and he manages to keep a hold on her when she tries to jerk out of his grip.

"Charles wanted you safe." That grabs her attention. Taking advantage of her stillness, he continues, "Charles wanted you safe, and I'm keeping you that way, but you're not going to make that easy if you leave to...to _wherever_ every time I've got my back turned. Least if I'm there I can keep you out of trouble." The words come tumbling out before he can stop them. "I can still _help_."

Now, she really does succeed in twisting away, growling. "You've never been there before. I've never _needed_ you before."

"What the fuck happened in Mexico, then, huh? What fucking happened there?" He shouldn't lose his fucking temper like this, but he's so angry and he's still hurting so much that even talking takes effort. He doesn't waver, but the ferocity in her eyes, that lurking shadow, drives an arrow into his chest, reminds him of what he must have been like at that age. Wild, cold.

"You think I wanted this? You might not fucking like it, kid, but we're stuck with each other, and I'm making damn well sure it stays that way. You wanna know the alternative? You wind up dead in the ground, like Chuck, or worse. You want to go back to that lab?"

She doesn't answer. In fact, she doesn't even look at him. Just tears a shirt and jeans from the pile, throws down the comic, and stomps towards the bathroom.

"Where do you think you're going?"

The only reply Logan receives is the slamming of a door so hard the whole room rattles. Two seconds later he hears water running, and dull thuds, like she's punching the wall.

He groans, runs his hand down the side of his face and glances at the bedside mirror. The face of a bruised, tired man looks back, hair graying and sandy. He looks old.

_You're fucked, bub._

 

                                                                                                                          XXX

 

The next morning, Logan realizes that clothes weren't the only thing Laura brought back from her little escapade. The tiny fridge in the corner of the room is full of water and sodas, and there's a sizeable mountain of junk food off to the side of Laura's bed, about a quarter of which is made up of Pringles. While he doesn't agree with her selection, it isn't the food that serves a blow to his pride, but the box of medical supplies that's been left open on the table. It's minimal, with very basic materials that might help with maybe the average cut or sore, but certainly wouldn't do anything for him.

If he needed any confirmation that she bought it as a massive "fuck you," he got it whenever Laura looked up at it and back at him, raising her eyebrows behind dark, tangled hair. As has become their tradition, they both say nothing and let it sit to collect dust.

Content as they both are to ignore each other, however, after another day the room starts to feel cramped (not to mention Laura's idea of "edible" leaves a lot to be desired), and Logan is able to drag Laura out into the truck without too much protest. This place is as barren as Logan had anticipated, but, despite that, it takes less than an hour to find a grocery store.

After serving in two major wars and fighting in a dozen others, it's become first instinct for Logan to be constantly on his guard, but besides the two old ladies he and Laura see chatting in the fruit aisle, nobody else is there. Knowing this helps with the physical need to raise his hackles, bare his teeth. He's been on edge for as long as he can remember, and getting caught in a wild goose chase with a kid he didn't even know he had hasn't done anything to help his situation.

As bad as he knows he is, though, Laura is worse: he's had well over a lifetime to control his impulses, to push the Wolverine below the surface, but Laura's never had the luxury of keeping the animal in. All she's ever known has forced it to come _out_. She snarles when a cashier greets them and tears through an entire shelf's worth of Twinkies, glaring when Logan snatches her wrist.

He glances at the four boxes of Twinkies in her arms. Seizing the closest one from her grip, he says, "You can have _one_."

Unsurprisingly, she tears away from him, her hands balled into fists, but doesn't argue and crams the remaining boxes back on the shelf.

The compromise is enough to subdue Laura. She stalks through the aisles, tense as a coiled string, but is otherwise quiet and mostly just grabs for anything she can reach before Logan pulls her away, yet again. He almost starts towards the fruits section, but the presence of unaware bystanders quickly turns him around to check-out, Laura huffing in frustration beside him as she's hauled along.

They leave and return to the hotel with enough food to keep them going for a few more days. It's not much, but as Logan already knows, even twenty grand will only last for so long. His muscles ache and he picks at the beef jerky and microwavable potatoes they bought, stomach clenching. He almost envies Laura: she'd practically destroyed her pile of food and downed three bottles of water in a single sitting, but it takes effort on his part to eat anything without being sick. He's spent too long starving, waisting precious time belly-up like a dead fish after Westchester to eat, to do much of anything but drink and keep on living, day after day, drudging through the muck just to buy more pills that Charles didn't even want, didn't even _take_ unless Logan forced them down his throat.

Caliban was pretty damn useless in that regard, too, considering he'd taken him on board in the first place to do the dirty work Logan didn't have the balls to do. Hell, most of the time he kept his distance from Charles, afraid of getting close and triggering another seizure, of being ripped apart from the core. He and Caliban hadn't been close enough for Logan to feel guilty, the desert had been too dry for that, but the regret lingers, pushed way down where the sun doesn't shine and, most importantly, Logan doesn't have to think on it for long before he can swallow the lump in his throat. Doesn't have to go back to the old habit of making up what ifs.

He forces the rest of his food down, which was pretty pitiable compared to what the kid had wolfed down, anyway, and turns on the TV set. Except for golfing shows, there's nothing on. He pauses on a cartoon and sneaks a glance at Laura, a questioning consideration formed halfway on his tongue. She's sound asleep on her bed, however, so Logan only tears his eyes away, chest brimming with a filling he doesn't want to examine, and settles on a news program.

"--eight were found dead," says a newsman, the screen behind him showing the Munson's farmhouse, pools of dried blood dark on the green grass. Logan's jaw goes slack and he feels his heart skip a beat. "Manslaughter is suspected. However, potential perpetrators are yet to be determined, and any trace evidence of the aggressor, or aggressors, have not been identified."

As Logan leaps off the bed, the newsman rolls off the Munson's and the farmer's names, their faces replacing where the house had been seconds ago.

"Shit, shit, _shit!_ "

He rushes over to Laura and shakes her awake, breath heavy with panic. She yells in surprise and sends a fist flying towards his face. A momentary burst of white stars blinds him as he hears his nose crack, tastes the iron tang of blood on his tongue.

"Damnit, stop!" he shouts, wrestling her down until she eventually stops thrashing, eyes bulging wildly in her skull. He doesn't have time to be rattled at how hard of a hit she managed to land, so he wipes away at the blood, gasping.

"Get your stuff. We're going, _now_."

Luckily for both of them, the urgency in his voice is enough to make Laura move. Logan stomps over to the bathroom and shoves all their clothes and food into the plastic store bags, cursing when one of them rips halfway open.

"Fuck, it's fine, just carry it, it's fine," he growls when Laura tries to push the rest of their things in a bag that's already way beyond its carrying capacity. They barrel down the hall and wait for what feels like an eternity in the elevator, rushing out the second it dings and ignoring the family in the lobby staring at Logan's bloody face.

He slams their key on the attendant's desk, muttering, "Thanks," and doesn't let go of Laura's hand until they reach the truck.

"Put everything in the back," Logan says, dumping the shirts he'd been carrying onto the back seat before pressing his foot to the gas pedal. They're ten minutes on the road before Logan's heart starts to beat at a normal rate again and his head clears just enough for him to think coherently.

It had been stupid, so stupid, for him to book a place when they were still so close to where the Munsons had died, even without the threat of the Reavers looming over them. Transigen wasn't the only facility that would be on the lookout for mutant blood, and the very last thing he ( _or Laura_ , he thought grimly, remembering the adamantium on her claws in an angry rush) needed. It leaves bile in his mouth just thinking it, but he's not as strong or as invincible as he used to be, if he was ever even either of those. If he goes down, he's not going to be the only own there to take the fall.

He keeps his eyes on the road, makes up his mind, and heads north.

As the hours pass, the shrubbery on the side of the road thickens and tall trees shoot up from the ground like skeletons, their shadows leaving a jagged network of dark, thin lines across the ground as the drove past. It's dusk in no time; his hands cling tightly to the steering wheel, the skin over his knuckles orange in the light of the setting sun. For the first time since Charles died, reality sets in: he only has one person left. One last mutant, sitting beside him as the daytime passes by and they descend into night, that one final chance for him to get it right.

His daughter speaks for the third time since he's met her, flatly. "Where are we going?"

The impenetrable silence that's been there from the beginning lies over him like a cloak. Smothers, presses against the lungs and makes it harder and harder to breathe. He looks at her, really looks, for the first time. Small and dark and blanketed in summer colors. Her mouth is the same as his. So is her brow, her eyes, untamed, angry, but tired, too. Tired for a girl that's barely even twelve, tired for an adult, really. It's a small and meaningless thing to notice, but the sky has gone up in flames behind her, and although even the moon isn't out yet, there's a hint of stars blooming behind the clouds.

He sets his jaw and answers, "Eden."


End file.
